No More Learning

The portion of fame,
whatever it be, that I have acquired since that time, is to be
attributed, not to the speeches which I made in the forum, but to the
power of dramatic composition. I have, therefore, resolved to take my
leave of the bar for ever. The homage of visitors, the train of
attendants, and the multitude of clients, which glitter so much in the
eyes of my friend, have no attraction for me. I regard them as I do
pictures, and busts, and statues of brass; things, which indeed are in
my family, but they came unlooked for, without my stir, or so much as
a wish on my part. In my humble station, I find that innocence is a
better shield than oratory. For the last I shall have no occasion,
unless I find it necessary, on some future occasion, to exert myself
in the just defence of an injured friend.


XII. But woods, and groves [a], and solitary places, have not escaped
the satyrical vein of my friend. To me they afford sensations of a
pure delight. It is there I enjoy the pleasures of a poetic
imagination; and among those pleasures it is not the least, that they
are pursued far from the noise and bustle of the world, without a
client to besiege my doors, and not a criminal to distress me with the
tears of affliction. Free from those distractions, the poet retires to
scenes of solitude, where peace and innocence reside. In those haunts
of contemplation, he has his pleasing visions. He treads on
consecrated ground. It was there that Eloquence first grew up, and
there she reared her temple. In those retreats she first adorned
herself with those graces, which have made mankind enamoured of her
charms; and there she filled the hearts of the wise and good with joy
and inspiration. Oracles first spoke in woods and sacred groves. As to
the species of oratory, which practises for lucre, or with views of
ambition; that sanguinary eloquence [b] now so much in vogue: it is of
modern growth, the offspring of corrupt manners, and degenerate times;
or rather, as my friend _Aper_ expressed it, it is a _weapon_ in the
hands of ill-designing men.

The early and more happy period of the world, or, as we poets call it,
the golden age, was the æra of true eloquence. Crimes and orators were
then unknown. Poetry spoke in harmonious numbers, not to varnish evil
deeds, but to praise the virtuous, and celebrate the friends of human
kind. This was the poet's office. The inspired train enjoyed the
highest honours; they held commerce with the gods; they partook of the
ambrosial feast: they were at once the messengers and interpreters of
the supreme command. They ranked on earth with legislators, heroes,
and demigods. In that bright assembly we find no orator, no pleader of
causes. We read of Orpheus [c], of Linus, and, if we choose to mount
still higher, we can add the name of Apollo himself. This may seem a
flight of fancy. Aper will treat it as mere romance, and fabulous
history: but he will not deny, that the veneration paid to Homer, with
the consent of posterity, is at least equal to the honours obtained by
Demosthenes. He must likewise admit, that the fame of Sophocles and
Euripides is not confined within narrower limits than that of Lysias
[d] or Hyperides. To come home to our own country, there are at this
day more who dispute the excellence of Cicero than of Virgil. Among
the orations of Asinius or Messala [e], is there one that can vie with
the Medea of Ovid, or the Thyestes of Varius?


XIII. If we now consider the happy condition of the true poet, and
that easy commerce in which he passes his time, need we fear to
compare his situation with that of the boasted orator, who leads a
life of anxiety, oppressed by business, and overwhelmed with care? But
it is said, his contention, his toil and danger, are steps to the
consulship. How much more eligible was the soft retreat in which
Virgil [a] passed his days, loved by the prince, and honoured by the
people! To prove this the letters of Augustus are still extant; and
the people, we know, hearing in the theatre some verses of that divine
poet [b], when he himself was present, rose in a body, and paid him
every mark of homage, with a degree of veneration nothing short of
what they usually offered to the emperor.

Even in our own times, will any man say, that Secundus Pomponius [c],
in point of dignity or extent of fame, is inferior to Domitius Afer
[d]? But Vibius and Marcellus have been cited as bright examples: and
yet, in their elevation what is there to be coveted? Is it to be
deemed an advantage to those ministers, that they are feared by
numbers, and live in fear themselves? They are courted for their
favours, and the men, who obtain their suit, retire with ingratitude,
pleased with their success, yet hating to be obliged. Can we suppose
that the man is happy, who by his artifices has wriggled himself into
favour, and yet is never thought by his master sufficiently pliant,
nor by the people sufficiently free? And after all, what is the amount
of all his boasted power? The emperor's freedmen have enjoyed the
same. But as Virgil sweetly sings, Me let the sacred muses lead to
their soft retreats, their living fountains, and melodious groves,
where I may dwell remote from care, master of myself, and under no
necessity of doing every day what my heart condemns. Let me no more be
seen at the wrangling bar, a pale and anxious candidate for precarious
fame; and let neither the tumult of visitors crowding to my levee, nor
the eager haste of officious freedmen, disturb my morning rest. Let me
live free from solicitude, a stranger to the art of promising legacies
[e], in order to buy the friendship of the great; and when nature
shall give the signal to retire, may I possess no more than may be
safely bequeathed to such friends as I shall think proper. At my
funeral let no token of sorrow be seen, no pompous mockery of woe.
Crown [f] me with chaplets; strew flowers on my grave, and let my
friends erect no vain memorial, to tell where my remains are lodged.


XIV. Maternus finished with an air of enthusiasm, that seemed to lift
him above himself. In that moment [a], Vipstanius Messala entered the
room. From the attention that appeared in every countenance, he
concluded that some important business was the subject of debate. I am
afraid, said he, that I break in upon you at an unseasonable time. You
have some secret to discuss, or, perhaps, a consultation upon your
hands. Far from it, replied Secundus; I wish you had come sooner. You
would have had the pleasure of hearing an eloquent discourse from our
friend Aper, who has been endeavouring to persuade Maternus to
dedicate all his time to the business of the bar, and to give the
whole man to his profession. The answer of Maternus would have
entertained you: he has been defending his art, and but this moment
closed an animated speech, that held more of the poetical than the
oratorical character.

I should have been happy, replied Messala, to have heard both my
friends. It is, however, some compensation for the loss, that I find
men of their talents, instead of giving all their time to the little
subtleties and knotty points of the forum, extending their views to
liberal science, and those questions of taste, which enlarge the mind,
and furnish it with ideas drawn from the treasures of polite
erudition. Enquiries of this kind afford improvement not only to those
who enter into the discussion, but to all who have the happiness of
being present at the debate. It is in consequence of this refined and
elegant way of thinking, that you, Secundus, have gained so much
applause, by the life of Julius Asiaticus [b], with which you have
lately obliged the world. From that specimen, we are taught to expect
other productions of equal beauty from the same hand. In like manner,
I see with pleasure, that our friend Aper loves to enliven his
imagination with topics of controversy, and still lays out his leisure
in questions of the schools [c], not, indeed, in imitation of the
ancient orators, but in the true taste of our modern rhetoricians.


XV. I am not surprised, returned Aper, at that stroke of raillery. It
is not enough for Messala, that the oratory of ancient times engrosses
all his admiration; he must have his fling at the moderns. Our talents
and our studies are sure to feel the sallies of his pleasantry [a]. I
have often heard you, my friend Messala, in the same humour. According
to you, the present age has not a single orator to boast of, though
your own eloquence, and that of your brother, are sufficient to refute
the charge. But you assert roundly, and maintain your proposition with
an air of confidence. You know how high you stand, and while in your
general censure of the age you include yourself, the smallest tincture
of malignity cannot be supposed to mingle in a decision, which denies
to your own genius, what by common consent is allowed to be your
undoubted right.

I have as yet, replied Messala, seen no reason to make me retract my
opinion; nor do I believe, that my two friends here, or even you
yourself (though you sometimes affect a different tone), can seriously
maintain the opposite doctrine. The decline of eloquence is too
apparent. The causes which have contributed to it, merit a serious
enquiry. I shall be obliged to you, my friends, for a fair solution of
the question. I have often reflected upon the subject; but what seems
to others a full answer, with me serves only to increase the
difficulty. What has happened at Rome, I perceive to have been the
case in Greece. The modern orators of that country, such as the priest
[b] Nicetes, and others who, like him, stun the schools of Mytelene
and Ephesus [c], are fallen to a greater distance from Æschines and
Demosthenes, than Afer and Africanus [d], or you, my friends, from
Tully or Asinius Pollio.


XVI. You have started an important question, said Secundus, and who so
able to discuss it as yourself? Your talents are equal to the
difficulty; your acquisitions in literature are known to be extensive,
and you have considered the subject. I have no objection, replied
Messala: my ideas are at your service, upon condition that, as I go
on, you will assist me with the lights of your understanding. For two
of us I can venture to answer, said Maternus: whatever you omit, or
rather, what you leave for us to glean after you, we shall be ready to
add to your observations. As to our friend Aper, you have told us,
that he is apt to differ from you upon this point, and even now I see
him preparing to give battle. He will not tamely bear to see us joined
in a league in favour of antiquity.

Certainly not, replied Aper, nor shall the present age, unheard and
undefended, be degraded by a conspiracy. But before you sound to arms,
I wish to know, who are to be reckoned among the ancients? At what
point of time [a] do you fix your favourite æra? When you talk to me
of antiquity, I carry my view to the first ages of the world, and see
before me Ulysses and Nestor, who flourished little less than [b]
thirteen hundred years ago. Your retrospect, it seems, goes no farther
back than to Demosthenes and Hyperides; men who lived in the times of
Philip and Alexander, and indeed survived them both. The interval,
between Demosthenes and the present age, is little more than [c] four
hundred years; a space of time, which, with a view to the duration of
human life, may be called long; but, as a portion of that immense
tract of time which includes the different ages of the world, it
shrinks into nothing, and seems to be but yesterday. For if it be
true, as Cicero says in his treatise called Hortensius, that the great
and genuine year is that period in which the heavenly bodies revolve
to the station from which their source began; and if this grand
rotation of the whole planetary system requires no less than twelve
thousand nine hundred and fifty-four years [d] of our computation, it
follows that Demosthenes, your boasted ancient, becomes a modern, and
even our contemporary; nay, that he lived in the same year with
ourselves; I had almost said, in the same month [e].


XVII. But I am in haste to pass to our Roman orators. Menenius Agrippa
[a] may fairly be deemed an ancient. I take it, however, that he is
not the person, whom you mean to oppose to the professors of modern
eloquence. The æra, which you have in view, is that of [b] Cicero and
Cæsar; of Cælius [c] and Calvus; of Brutus [d], Asinius, and Messala.
Those are the men, whom you place in the front of hour line; but for
what reason they are to be classed with the ancients, and not, as I
think they ought to be, with the moderns, I am still to learn. To
begin with Cicero; he, according to the account of Tiro, his freedman,
was put to death on the seventh of the ides of December, during the
consulship of Hirtius and Pansa [e], who, we know, were both cut off
in the course of the year, and left their office vacant for Augustus
and Quintus Pedius. Count from that time six and fifty years to
complete the reign of Augustus; three and twenty for that of Tiberius,
four for Caligula, eight and twenty for Claudius and Nero, one for
Galba, Otho, and Vitellius, and finally six from the accession of
Vespasian to the present year of our felicity, we shall have from the
death of Cicero a period of about [f] one hundred and twenty years,
which may be considered as the term allotted to the life of man. I
myself remember to have seen in Britain a soldier far advanced in
years, who averred that he carried arms in that very battle [g] in
which his countrymen sought to drive Julius Cæsar back from their
coast. If this veteran, who served in the defence of his country
against Cæsar's invasion, had been brought a prisoner to Rome; or, if
his own inclination, or any other accident in the course of things,
had conducted him thither, he might have heard, not only Cæsar and
Cicero, but even ourselves in some of our public speeches.

In the late public largess [h] you will acknowledge that you saw
several old men, who assured us that they had received more than once,
the like distribution from Augustus himself. If that be so, might not
those persons have heard Corvinus [i] and Asinius? Corvinus, we all
know, lived through half the reign of Augustus, and Asinius almost to
the end. How then are we to ascertain the just boundaries of a
century? They are not to be varied at pleasure, so as to place some
orators in a remote, and others in a recent period, while people are
still living, who heard them all, and may, therefore, with good reason
rank them as contemporaries.


XVIII. From what I have said, I assume it as a clear position, that
the glory, whatever it be, that accrued to the age in which those
orators lived, is not confined to that particular period, but reaches
down to the present time, and may more properly be said to belong to
us, than to Servius Galba [a], or to Carbo [b], and others of the same
or more ancient date. Of that whole race of orators, I may freely say,
that their manner cannot now be relished. Their language is coarse,
and their composition rough, uncouth, and harsh; and yet your Calvus
[c], your Cælius, and even your favourite Cicero, condescend to follow
that inelegant style. It were to be wished that they had not thought
such models worthy of imitation. I mean to speak my mind with freedom;
but before I proceed, it will be necessary to make a preliminary
observation, and it is this: Eloquence has no settled form: at
different times it puts on a new garb, and changes with the manners
and the taste of the age. Thus we find, that Gracchus [d], compared
with the elder Cato [e], is full and copious; but, in his turn, yields
to Crassus [f], an orator more polished, more correct, and florid.
Cicero rises superior to both; more animated, more harmonious and
sublime. He is followed by Corvinus [g], who has all the softer
graces; a sweet flexibility in his style, and a curious felicity in
the choice of his words. Which was the greatest orator, is not the
question.

The use I make of these examples, is to prove that eloquence does not
always wear the same dress, but, even among your celebrated ancients,
has its different modes of persuasion. And be it remembered, that what
differs is not always the worst. Yet such is the malignity of the
human mind, that what has the sanction of antiquity is always admired;
what is present, is sure to be condemned. Can we doubt that there have
been critics, who were better pleased with Appius Cæcus [h] than with
Cato? Cicero had his adversaries [i]: it was objected to him, that his
style was redundant, turgid, never compressed, void of precision, and
destitute of Attic elegance. We all have read the letters of Calvus
and Brutus to your famous orator. In the course of that
correspondence, we plainly see what was Cicero's opinion of those
eminent men. The former [k] appeared to him cold and languid; the
latter [l], disjointed, loose, and negligent. On the other hand, we
know what they thought in return: Calvus did not hesitate to say, that
Cicero was diffuse luxuriant to a fault, and florid without vigour.
Brutus, in express terms, says, he was weakened into length, and
wanted sinew. If you ask my opinion, each of them had reason on his
side. I shall hereafter examine them separately. My business at
present, is not in the detail: I speak of them in general terms.


XIX. The æra of ancient oratory is, I think, extended by its admirers
no farther back than the time of Cassius Severus [a]. He, they tell
us, was the first who dared to deviate from the plain and simple style
of his predecessors. I admit the fact. He departed from the
established forms, not through want of genius, or of learning, but
guided by his own good sense and superior judgement. He saw that the
public ear was formed to a new manner; and eloquence, he knew, was to
find new approaches to the heart. In the early periods of the
commonwealth, a rough unpolished people might well be satisfied with
the tedious length of unskilful speeches, at a time when to make an
harangue that took up the whole day, was the orator's highest praise.
The prolix exordium, wasting itself in feeble preparation; the
circumstantial narration, the ostentatious division of the argument
under different heads, and the thousand proofs and logical
distinctions, with whatever else is contained in the dry precepts of
Hermagoras [b] and Apollodorus, were in that rude period received with
universal applause. To finish the picture, if your ancient orator
could glean a little from the common places of philosophy, and
interweave a few shreds and patches with the thread of his discourse,
he was extolled to the very skies. Nor can this be matter of wonder:
the maxims of the schools had not been divulged; they came with an air
of novelty. Even among the orators themselves, there were but few who
had any tincture of philosophy. Nor had they learned the rules of art
from the teachers of eloquence.

In the present age, the tenets of philosophy and the precepts of
rhetoric are no longer a secret. The lowest of our popular assemblies
are now, I will not say fully instructed, but certainly acquainted
with the elements of literature. The orator, by consequence, finds
himself obliged to seek new avenues to the heart, and new graces to
embellish his discourse, that he may not offend fastidious ears,
especially before a tribunal where the judge is no longer bound by
precedent, but determines according to his will and pleasure; not, as
formerly, observing the measure of time allowed to the advocate, but
taking upon himself to prescribe the limits. Nor is this all: the
judge, at present, will not condescend to wait till the orator, in his
own way, opens his case; but, of his own authority, reminds him of the
point in question, and, if he wanders, calls him back from his
digression, not without a hint that the court wishes to dispatch.


XX. Who, at this time, would bear to hear an advocate introducing
himself with a tedious preface about the infirmities of his
constitution? Yet that is the threadbare exordium of Corvinus. We have
five books against Verres [a]. Who can endure that vast redundance?
Who can listen to those endless arguments upon points of form, and
cavilling exceptions [b], which we find in the orations of the same
celebrated advocate for Marcus Tullius [c] and Aulus Cæcina? Our
modern judges are able to anticipate the argument. Their quickness
goes before the speaker. If not struck with the vivacity of his
manner, the elegance of his sentiments, and the glowing colours of his
descriptions, they soon grow weary of the flat insipid discourse. Even
in the lowest class of life, there is now a relish for rich and
splendid ornament. Their taste requires the gay, the florid, and the
brilliant. The unpolished style of antiquity would now succeed as ill
at the bar, as the modern actor who should attempt to copy the
deportment of Roscius [d], or Ambivius Turpio. Even the young men who
are preparing for the career of eloquence, and, for that purpose,
attend the forum and the tribunals of justice, have now a nice
discriminating taste. They expect to have their imaginations pleased.
They wish to carry home some bright illustration, some splendid
passage, that deserves to be remembered. What has struck their fancy,
they communicate to each other: and in their letters, the glittering
thought, given with sententious brevity, the poetical allusion that
enlivened the discourse, and the dazzling imagery, are sure to be
transmitted to their respective colonies and provinces. The ornaments
of poetic diction are now required, not, indeed, copied from the rude
obsolete style of Accius [e] and Pacuvius, but embellished with the
graces of Horace, Virgil, and [f] Lucan. The public judgement has
raised a demand for harmonious periods, and, in compliance with the
taste of the age, our orators grow every day more polished and
adorned. Let it not be said that what we gain in refinement, we lose
in strength. Are the temples, raised by our modern architects, of a
weaker structure, because they are not formed with shapeless stones,
but with the magnificence of polished marble, and decorations of the
richest gilding?


XXI. Shall I fairly own to you the impression which I generally
receive from the ancient orators? They make me laugh, or lull me to
sleep. Nor is this the case only, when I read the orations of Canutus
[a], Arrius, Furnius, Toranius and others of the same school, or
rather, the same infirmary [b]; an emaciated sickly race of orators;
without sinew, colour, or proportion. But what shall be said of your
admired Calvus [c]? He, I think, has left no less than one and twenty
volumes: in the whole collection, there is not more than one or two
short orations, that can pretend to perfection in the kind. Upon this
point there is no difference of opinion. Who now reads his
declamations against Asitius or Drusus? His speeches against Vatinius
are in the hands of the curious, particularly the second, which must
be allowed to be a masterpiece. The language is elegant; the
sentiments are striking, and the ear is satisfied with the roundness
of the periods. In this specimen we see that he had an idea of just
composition, but his genius was not equal to his judgement. The
orations of Cælius, though upon the whole defective, are not without
their beauties. Some passages are highly finished. In those we
acknowledge, the nice touches of modern elegance. In general, however,
the coarse expression, the halting period, and the vulgarity of the
sentiments, have too much of the leaven of antiquity.

If Cælius [d] is still admired, it is not, I believe, in any of those
parts that bear the mark of a rude illiterate age. With regard to
Julius Cæsar [e], engaged as he was in projects of vast ambition, we
may forgive him the want of that perfection which might, otherwise, be
expected from so sublime a genius. Brutus, in like manner, may be
excused on account of his philosophical speculations. Both he and
Cæsar, in their oratorical attempts, fell short of themselves. Their
warmest admirers acknowledge the fact, nor is there an instance to the
contrary, unless we except Cæsar's speech for Decius the Samnite [f],
and that of Brutus for king [g] Dejotarus. But are those performances,
and some others of the same lukewarm temper, to be received as works
of genius? He who admires those productions, may be left to admire
their verses also. For verses they both made, and sent them into the
world, I will not say, with more success than Cicero, but certainly
more to their advantage; for their poetry had the good fortune to be
little known.

Asinius lived near our own times [h]. He, seems to have studied in the
old school of Menenius and Appius. He composed tragedies as well as
orations, but in a style so harsh and ragged, that one would think him
the disciple of Accius and Pacuvius. He mistook the nature of
eloquence, which may then be said to have attained its true beauty,
when the parts unite with smoothness, strength, and proportion. As in
the human body the veins should not swell too high, nor the bones and
sinews appear too prominent; but its form is then most graceful, when
a pure and temperate blood gives animation [i] to the whole frame;
when the muscles have their proper play, and the colour of health is
diffused over the several parts. I am not willing to disturb the
memory of Corvinus Messala [k]. If he did not reach the graces of
modern composition, the defect does not seem to have sprung from
choice. The vigour of his genius was not equal to his judgement.


XXII. I now proceed to Cicero, who, we find, had often upon his hands
the very controversy, that engages us at present. It was the fashion
with his contemporaries to admire the ancients, while he, on the
contrary, contended for the eloquence of his own time. Were I to
mention the quality that placed him at the head of his rivals I should
say it was the solidity of his judgement.
It was he that first shewed
a taste for polished and graceful oratory. He was happy in his choice
of words, and he had the art of giving weight and harmony to his
composition. We find in many passages a warm imagination, and luminous
sentences. In his later speeches, he has lively sallies of wit and
fancy. Experience had then matured his judgement, and after long
practice, he found the true oratorical style. In his earlier
productions we see the rough cast of antiquity. The exordium is
tedious; the narration is drawn into length; luxuriant passages are
not retouched with care; he is not easily affected, and he rarely
takes fire; his sentiments are not always happily expressed [a], nor
are the periods closed with energy. There is nothing so highly
finished, as to tempt you to avail yourself of a borrowed beauty. In
short, his speeches are like a rude building, which is strong and
durable, but wants that grace and consonance of parts which give
symmetry and perfection to the whole.

In oratory, as in architecture, I require ornament as well as use.
From the man of ample fortune, who undertakes to build, we expect
elegance and proportion. It is not enough that his house will keep out
the wind and the rain; it must strike the eye, and present a pleasing
object. Nor will it suffice that the furniture may answer all domestic
purposes; it should be rich, fashionable, elegant; it should have gold
and gems so curiously wrought, that they will bear examination, often
viewed, and always admired. The common utensils, which are either mean
or sordid, should be carefully removed out of sight. In like manner,
the true orator should avoid the trite and vulgar. Let him reject the
antiquated phrase, and whatever is covered with the rust of time; let
his sentiments be expressed with spirit, not in careless,
ill-constructed, languid periods, like a dull writer of annals; let
him banish low scurrility, and, in short, let him know how to
diversify his style, that he may not fatigue the ear with a monotony,
ending for ever with the same unvaried cadence [b].


XXIII. I shall say nothing of the false wit, and insipid play upon
words, which we find in Cicero's orations. His pleasant conceits about
the _wheel of fortune_ [a], and the arch raillery on the equivocal
meaning of the word _verres_ [b], do not merit a moment's attention. I
omit the perpetual recurrence of the phrase, _esse videatur_ [c],
which chimes in our ears at the close of so many sentences, sounding
big, but signifying nothing. These are petty blemishes; I mention them
with reluctance. I say nothing of other defects equally improper: and
yet those very defects are the delight of such as affect to call
themselves ancient orators. I need not single them out by name: the
men are sufficiently known; it is enough to allude, in general terms,
to the whole class.

We all are sensible that there is a set of critics now existing, who
prefer Lucilius [d] to Horace, and Lucretius [e] to Virgil; who
despise the eloquence of Aufidius Bassus [f] and Servilius Nonianus,
and yet admire Varro and [g] Sisenna. By these pretenders to taste,
the works of our modern rhetoricians are thrown by with neglect, and
even fastidious disdain; while those of Calvus are held in the highest
esteem. We see these men prosing in their ancient style before the
judges; but we see them left without an audience, deserted by the
people, and hardly endured by their clients. The truth is, their cold
and spiritless manner has no attraction. They call it sound oratory,
but it is want of vigour; like that precarious state of health which
weak constitutions preserve by abstinence. What physician will
pronounce that a strong habit of body, which requires constant care
and anxiety of mind? To say barely, that we are not ill, is surely not
enough. True health consists in vigour, a generous warmth, and a
certain alacrity in the whole frame. He who is only not indisposed, is
little distant from actual illness.

With you, my friends, the case is different: proceed, as you well can,
and in fact, as you do, to adorn our age with all the grace and
splendour of true oratory. It is with pleasure, Messala, that I see
you selecting for imitation the liveliest models of the ancient
school. You too, Maternus, and you, my friend, Secundus [h], you both
possess the happy art of adding to weight of sentiment all the dignity
of language. To a copious invention you unite the judgement that knows
how to distinguish the specific qualities of different authors. The
beauty of order is yours. When the occasion demands it, you can expand
and amplify with strength and majesty; and you know when to be concise
with energy. Your periods flow with ease, and your composition has
every grace of style and sentiment. You command the passions with
resistless sway, while in yourselves you beget a temperance so truly
dignified, that, though, perhaps, envy and the malignity of the times
may be unwilling to proclaim your merit, posterity will do you ample
justice [i].


XXIV. As soon as Aper concluded, You see, said Maternus, the zeal and
ardour of our friend: in the cause of the moderns, what a torrent of
eloquence! against the ancients, what a fund of invective! With great
spirit, and a vast compass of learning, he has employed against his
masters the arts for which he is indebted to them. And yet all this
vehemence must not deter you, Messala, from the performance of your
promise. A formal defence of the ancients is by no means necessary. We
do not presume to vie with that illustrious race. We have been praised
by Aper, but we know our inferiority. He himself is aware of it,
though, in imitation of the ancient manner [a], he has thought proper,
for the sake of a philosophical debate, to take the wrong side of the
question. In answer to his argument, we do not desire you to expatiate
in praise of the ancients: their fame wants no addition. What we
request is, an investigation of the causes which have produced so
rapid a decline from the flourishing state of genuine eloquence. I
call it rapid, since, according to Aper's own chronology, the period
from the death of Cicero does not exceed one hundred and twenty years
[b].


XXV. I am willing, said Messala, to pursue the plan which you have
recommended. The question, whether the men who flourished above one
hundred years ago, are to be accounted ancients, has been started by
my friend Aper, and, I believe, it is of the first impression. But it
is a mere dispute about words. The discussion of it is of no moment,
provided it be granted, whether we call them ancients, or our
predecessors, or give them any other appellation, that the eloquence
of those times was superior to that of the present age. When Aper
tells us, that different periods of time have produced new modes of
oratory, I see nothing to object; nor shall I deny, that in one and
the same period the style and manners have greatly varied. But this I
assume, that among the orators of Greece, Demosthenes holds the first
rank, and after him [a] Æschynes, Hyperides, Lysias, and Lycurgus, in
regular succession. That age, by common consent, is allowed to be the
flourishing period of Attic eloquence.

In like manner, Cicero stands at the head of our Roman orators, while
Calvus, Asinius, and Cæsar, Cælius and Brutus, follow him at a
distance; all of them superior, not only to every former age, but to
the whole race that came after them. Nor is it material that they
differ in the mode, since they all agree in the kind. Calvus is close
and nervous; Asinius more open and harmonious; Cæsar is distinguished
[b] by the splendour of his diction; Cælius by a caustic severity; and
gravity is the characteristic of Brutus. Cicero is more luxuriant in
amplification, and he has strength and vehemence. They all, however,
agree in this: their eloquence is manly, sound, and vigorous. Examine
their works, and you will see the energy of congenial minds, a
family-likeness in their genius, however it may take a distinct colour
from the specific qualities of the men. True, they detracted from each
other's merit. In their letters, which are still extant, we find some
strokes of mutual hostility. But this littleness does not impeach
their eloquence: their jealousy was the infirmity of human nature.
Calvus, Asinius, and Cicero, might have their fits of animosity, and,
no doubt, were liable to envy, malice, and other degrading passions:
they were great orators, but they were men.

Brutus is the only one of the set, who may be thought superior to
petty contentions. He spoke his mind with freedom, and, I believe,
without a tincture of malice. He did not envy Cæsar himself, and can
it be imagined that he envied Cicero? As to Galba [c], Lælius, and
others of a remote period, against whom we have heard Aper's
declamation, I need not undertake their defence, since I am willing to
acknowledge, that in their style and manner we perceive those defects
and blemishes which it is natural to expect, while art, as yet in its
infancy, has made no advances towards perfection.


XXVI. After all, if the best form of eloquence must be abandoned, and
some, new-fangled style must grow into fashion, give me the rapidity
of Gracchus [a], or the more solemn manner of Crassus [b], with all
their imperfections, rather than the effeminate delicacy of [c]
Mæcenas, or the tinkling cymbal [d] of Gallio. The most homely dress
is preferable to gawdy colours and meretricious ornaments. The style
in vogue at present, is an innovation, against every thing just and
natural; it is not even manly. The luxuriant phrase, the inanity of
tuneful periods, and the wanton levity of the whole composition, are
fit for nothing but the histrionic art, as if they were written for
the stage. To the disgrace of the age (however astonishing it may
appear), it is the boast, the pride, the glory of our present orators,
that their periods are musical enough either for the dancer's heel
[e], or the warbler's throat. Hence it is, that by a frequent, but
preposterous, metaphor, the orator is said to speak in melodious
cadence, and the dancer to move with expression. In this view of
things, even [f] Cassius Severus (the only modern whom Aper has
ventured to name), if we compare him with the race that followed, may
be fairly pronounced a legitimate orator, though it must be
acknowledged, that in what remains of his compositing, he is clumsy
without strength, and violent without spirit. He was the first that
deviated from the great masters of his art. He despised all method and
regular arrangement; indelicate in his choice of words, he paid no
regard to decency; eager to attack, he left himself unguarded; he
brandished his weapons without skill or address; and, to speak
plainly, he wrangled, but did not argue. And yet, notwithstanding
these defects, he was, as I have already said, superior to all that
came after him, whether we regard the variety of his learning, the
urbanity of his wit, or the vigour of his mind. I expected that Aper,
after naming this orator, would have drawn up the rest of his forces
in regular order. He has fallen, indeed, upon Asinius, Cælius, and
Calvus; but where are his champions to enter the lists with them? I
imagined that he had a phalanx in reserve, and that we should have
seen them man by man giving battle to Cicero, Cæsar, and the rest in
succession. He has singled out some of the ancients, but has brought
none of his moderns into the field. He thought it enough to give them
a good character in their absence. In this, perhaps, he acted with
prudence: he was afraid, if he selected a few, that the rest of the
tribe would take offence. For among the rhetoricians of the present
day, is there one to be found, who does not, in his own opinion, tower
above Cicero, though he has the modesty to yield to Gabinianus [g]?


XXVII. What Aper has omitted, I intend to perform. I shall produce his
moderns by name, to the end that, by placing the example before our
eyes, we may be able, more distinctly, to trace the steps by which the
vigour of ancient eloquence has fallen to decay. Maternus interrupted
him. I wish, he said, that you would come at once to the point: we
claim your promise. The superiority of the ancients is not in
question. We want no proof of it. Upon that point my opinion is
decided. But the causes of our rapid decline from ancient excellence
remain to be unfolded. We know that you have turned your thoughts to
this subject, and we expected from you a calm disquisition, had not
the violent attack which Aper made upon your favourite orators, roused
your spirit, and, perhaps, given you some offence. Far from it,
replied Messala; he has given me no offence; nor must you, my friends,
take umbrage, if at any time a word should fall from me, not quite
agreeable to your way of thinking. We are engaged in a free enquiry,
and you know, that, in this kind of debate, the established law allows
every man to speak his mind without reserve. That is the law, replied
Maternus; you may proceed in perfect security. When you speak of the
ancients, speak of them with ancient freedom, which, I fear, is at a
lower ebb than even the genius of those eminent men.


XXVIII. Messala resumed his discourse: The causes of the decay of
eloquence are by no means difficult to be traced. They are, I believe,
well known to you, Maternus, and also to Secundus, not excepting my
friend Aper. It seems, however, that I am now, at your request, to
unravel the business. But there is no mystery in it. We know that
eloquence, with the rest of the polite arts, has lost its former
lustre: and yet, it is not a dearth of men, or a decay of talents,
that has produced this fatal effect. The true causes are, the
dissipation of our young men, the inattention of parents, the
ignorance of those who pretend to give instruction, and the total
neglect of ancient discipline. The mischief began at Rome, it has
over-run all Italy, and is now, with rapid strides, spreading through
the provinces. The effects, however, are more visible at home, and
therefore I shall confine myself to the reigning vices of the capital;
vices that wither every virtue in the bud, and continue their baleful
influence through every season of life.

But before I enter on the subject, it will not be useless to look back
to the system of education that prevailed in former times, and to the
strict discipline of our ancestors, in a point of so much moment as
the formation of youth. In the times to which I now refer, the son of
every family was the legitimate offspring of a virtuous mother. The
infant, as soon as born, was not consigned to the mean dwelling of a
hireling nurse [a], but was reared and cherished in the bosom of a
tender parent. To regulate all household affairs, and attend to her
infant race, was, at that time, the glory of the female character. A
matron, related to the family, and distinguished by the purity of her
life, was chosen to watch the progress of the tender mind. In her
presence not one indecent word was uttered; nothing was done against
propriety and good manners. The hours of study and serious employment
were settled by her direction; and not only so, but even the
diversions of the children were conducted with modest reserve and
sanctity of manners. Thus it was that Cornelia [b], the mother of the
Gracchi, superintended the education of her illustrious issue. It was
thus that Aurelia [c] trained up Julius Cæsar; and thus Atia [d]
formed the mind of Augustus. The consequence of this regular
discipline was, that the young mind grew up in innocence, unstained by
vice, unwarped by irregular passions, and, under that culture,
received the seeds of science. Whatever was the peculiar bias, whether
to the military art, the study of the laws, or the profession of
eloquence, that engrossed the whole attention, and the youth, thus
directed, embraced the entire compass of one favourite science.


XXIX. In the present age, what is our practice? The infant is
committed to a Greek chambermaid, and a slave or two, chosen for the
purpose, generally the worst of the whole household train; all utter
strangers to every liberal notion. In that worshipful society [a] the
youth grows up, imbibing folly and vulgar error. Throughout the house,
not one servant cares what he says or does [b] in the presence of his
young master: and indeed how should it be otherwise? The parents
themselves are the first to give their children the worst examples of
vice and luxury. The stripling consequently loses all sense of shame,
and soon forgets the respect he owes to others as well as to himself.
A passion for horses, players, and gladiators [c], seems to be the
epidemic folly of the times. The child receives it in his mother's
womb; he brings it with him into the world; and in a mind so
possessed, what room for science, or any generous purpose?

In our houses, at our tables, sports and interludes are the topics of
conversation. Enter the places of academical lectures, and who talks
of any other subject? The preceptors themselves have caught the
contagion. Nor can this be wondered at. To establish a strict and
regular discipline, and to succeed by giving proofs of their genius,
is not the plan of our modern rhetoricians. They pay their court to
the great, and, by servile adulation, increase the number of their
pupils. Need I mention the manner of conveying the first elements of
school learning? No care is taken to give the student a taste for the
best authors [d]; the page of history lies neglected; the study of men
and manners is no part of their system; and every branch of useful
knowledge is left uncultivated. A preceptor is called in, and
education is then thought to be in a fair way. But I shall have
occasion hereafter to speak more fully of that class of men, called
rhetoricians. It will then be seen, at what period that profession
first made its appearance at Rome, and what reception it met with from
our ancestors.


XXX. Before I proceed, let us advert for a moment to the plan of
ancient discipline. The unwearied diligence of the ancient orators,
their habits of meditation, and their daily exercise in the whole
circle of arts and sciences, are amply displayed in the books which
they have transmitted to us. The treatise of Cicero, entitled Brutus
[a], is in all our hands. In that work, after commemorating the
orators of a former day, he closes the account with the particulars of
his own progress in science, and the method he took in educating
himself to the profession of oratory. He studied the civil law under
[b] Mucius Scævola; he was instructed in the various systems of
philosophy, by Philo [c] of the academic school, and by Diodorus the
stoic; and though Rome, at that time, abounded with the best
professors, he made a voyage to Greece [d], and thence to Asia, in
order to enrich his mind with every branch of learning. Hence that
store of knowledge which appears in all his writings. Geometry, music,
grammar, and every useful art, were familiar to him. He embraced the
whole science of logic [e] and ethics. He studied the operations of
nature. His diligence of enquiry opened to him the long chain of
causes and effects, and, in short, the whole system of physiology was
his own. From a mind thus replenished, it is no wonder, my good
friends, that we see in the compositions of that extraordinary man
that affluence of ideas, and that prodigious flow of eloquence. In
fact, it is not with oratory as with the other arts, which are
confined to certain objects, and circumscribed within their own
peculiar limits. He alone deserves the name of an orator, who can
speak in a copious style, with ease or dignity, as the subject
requires; who can find language to decorate his argument; who through
the passions can command the understanding; and, while he serves
mankind, knows how to delight the judgement and the imagination of his
audience.


XXXI. Such was, in ancient times, the idea of an orator. To form that
illustrious character, it was not thought necessary to declaim in the
schools of rhetoricians [a], or to make a vain parade in fictitious
controversies, which were not only void of all reality, but even of a
shadow of probability. Our ancestors pursued a different plan: they
stored their minds with just ideas of moral good and evil; with the
rules of right and wrong, and the fair and foul in human transactions.
These, on every controverted point, are the orator's province. In
courts of law, just and unjust undergo his discussion; in political
debate, between what is expedient and honourable, it is his to draw
the line; and those questions are so blended in their nature, that
they enter into every cause. On such important topics, who can hope to
bring variety of matter, and to dignify that matter with style and
sentiment, if he has not, beforehand, enlarged his mind with the
knowledge of human nature? with the laws of moral obligation? the
deformity of vice, the beauty of virtue, and other points which do not
immediately belong to the theory of ethics?

The orator, who has enriched his mind with these materials, may be
truly said to have acquired the powers of persuasion. He who knows the
nature of indignation, will be able to kindle or allay that passion in
the breast of the judge; and the advocate who has considered the
effect of compassion, and from what secret springs it flows, will best
know how to soften the mind, and melt it into tenderness. It is by
these secrets of his art that the orator gains his influence. Whether
he has to do with the prejudiced, the angry, the envious, the
melancholy, or the timid, he can bridle their various passions, and
hold the reins in his own hand. According to the disposition of his
audience, he will know when to check the workings of the heart, and
when to raise them to their full tumult of emotion.

Some critics are chiefly pleased with that close mode of oratory,
which in a laconic manner states the facts, and forms an immediate
conclusion: in that case, it is obvious how necessary it is to be a
complete master of the rules of logic. Others delight in a more open,
free, and copious style, where the arguments are drawn from topics of
general knowledge; for this purpose, the peripatetic school [b] will
supply the orator with ample materials. The academic philosopher [c]
will inspire him with warmth and energy; Plato will give the sublime,
and Xenophon that equal flow which charms us in that amiable writer.
The rhetorical figure, which is called exclamation, so frequent with
Epicurus [d] and Metrodorus, will add to a discourse those sudden
breaks of passion, which give motion, strength, and vehemence.

It is not for the stoic school, nor for their imaginary wise man, that
I am laying down rules. I am forming an orator, whose business it is,
not to adhere to one sect, but to go the round of all the arts and
sciences. Accordingly we find, that the great master of ancient
eloquence laid their foundation in a thorough study of the civil law,
and to that fund they added grammar, music, and geometry. The fact is,
in most of the causes that occur, perhaps in every cause, a due
knowledge of the whole system of jurisprudence is an indispensable
requisite. There are likewise many subjects of litigation, in which an
acquaintance with other sciences is of the highest use.


XXXII. Am I to be told, that to gain some slight information on
particular subjects, as occasion may require, will sufficiently answer
the purposes of an orator? In answer to this, let it be observed, that
the application of what we draw from our own fund, is very different
from the use we make of what we borrow. Whether we speak from digested
knowledge, or the mere suggestion of others, the effect is soon
perceived. Add to this, that conflux of ideas with which the different
sciences enrich the mind, gives an air of dignity to whatever we say,
even in cases where that depth of knowledge is not required. Science
adorns the speaker at all times, and, where it is least expected,
confers a grace that charms every hearer; the man of erudition feels
it, and the unlettered part of the audience acknowledge the effect
without knowing the cause. A murmur of applause ensues; the speaker is
allowed to have laid in a store of knowledge; he possesses all the
powers of persuasion, and then is called an orator indeed.

I take the liberty to add, if we aspire to that honourable
appellation, that there is no way but that which I have chalked out.
No man was ever yet a complete orator, and, I affirm, never can be,
unless, like the soldier marching to the field of battle, he enters
the forum armed at all points with the sciences and the liberal arts.
Is that the case in these our modern times? The style which we hear
every day, abounds with colloquial barbarisms, and vulgar phraseology:
no knowledge of the laws is heard; our municipal policy is wholly
neglected, and even the decrees of the senate are treated with
contempt and derision. Moral philosophy is discarded, and the maxims
of ancient wisdom are unworthy of their notice. In this manner,
eloquence is dethroned; she is banished from her rightful dominions,
and obliged to dwell in the cold regions of antithesis, forced
conceit, and pointed sentences. The consequence is, that she, who was
once the sovereign mistress of the sciences, and led them as handmaids
in her train, is now deprived of her attendants, reduced,
impoverished, and, stripped of her usual honours (I might say of her
genius), compelled to exercise a mere plebeian art.

And now, my friends, I think I have laid open the efficient cause of
the decline of eloquence. Need I call witnesses to support my opinion?
I name Demosthenes among the Greeks. He, we are assured, constantly
attended [a] the lectures of Plato.